The Importance of Being Jack
by MissTempleton
Summary: Phryne comes up with a histrionic solution to the Problem of Aunt Prudence. A series of unexplained events and coincidences, though, leave Melbourne's most glamorous sleuth with a growing pile of mysteries to solve.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"I'm worried about Aunt Prudence."

The Honourable Phryne Fisher's gaze was focussed on her manicured finger as it traced the rim of her glass. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson's was focussed on it too, because he'd had a long day and it was the only thing in the room – apart from the candle flame – that was moving. The room was warm, and the motion had a hypnotic quality.

A response, though, seemed in order, so he did his best.

"Why?"

It wouldn't have won any awards from the literary centres of excellence, but it had her gaze lifted to his and the smile was decidedly bankable.

"She's fighting too hard."

He was genuinely nonplussed. "Fighting? Fighting who?"

An elegant shoulder, clad in rippling velvet, shrugged. "Everything. Everyone. Life. Us."

She leaned on her forearms, and tipped her head at him. "You must have seen it. Ever since the awful Ambrose tried to trick her into marriage, she's withdrawn into herself. She's lost her confidence, and I hate it."

He wanted to converse. He really did. He even had an inkling that what she was talking about was right, and worth discussing. But his day had started at 3.20am when the telephone rang and there was a knife crime and he had to be there and then there had been the problematic process of taking a politician's spouse into custody and getting a statement that was likely to stand up in court and … and … he summoned up the energy from the place usually reserved for the last punch in a street fight.

"Can we do anything about it?"

There it was. That smile again, and his spine straightened a little and his heart lifted and who needed sleep anyway? All because he'd said _we_.

"Perhaps. I thought I might try to get her involved in some sort of fundraiser for the Women's Hospital. Something a bit different, that will take all of her energy, and she won't have the chance to brood."

"A party?"

"Ye-es … actually, no. She has so many parties, she could hold one in her sleep."

 _Sleep. Marvellous. Oh, wait, no, not yet._

"What else? A gala of some sort?"

"Yes! Something big. But she has to take a central role."

Phryne relapsed into thought once more.

"What sort of role?" he ventured to ask.

She brooded in silence for a moment, then her smile broadened.

"Jack, I've got it. Aunt P's going to play the role of her life. We're going to do a show – a benefit. We'll get Bernard to put it on at His Majesty's."

Her shoulders shook as she rejoiced in her own audacity. She took his hand, and he tried not to whimper as her enthusiasm and energy swept over him.

"Jack. There are some roles a woman was born to play. For my Aunt Prudence …"

She paused for dramatic effect. He took her other hand and drew her to her feet, for getting-closer-to-the-pillow effect.

"… it's Lady Bracknell."

Rarely had a Modern Major General been more disarmed. Fortunately for all concerned, his wife managed to retrieve the situation, and did it very well, if truth be told. He was standing to attention in no time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

When Phryne turned up at Prudence Stanley's mansion, though, she very nearly failed at the first fence. Aunt P's newest, snootiest parlourmaid answered the door, and attempted to inform the Honourable Miss Fisher that Mrs Stanley was Not At Home.

Miss Fisher, however, was having none of that nonsense.

"Don't be ridiculous," was her peremptory advice. _I was doing supercilious looks when you were making mud pies_ her dismissive glance informed the girl as she thrust past her and made straight for the beautifully-appointed drawing room.

Mrs Stanley was proved to be eminently Home, and engaged in some unusually violent letter-writing at a corner escritoire, with her back to the room. As Phryne opened the door, a piece of heavy paper was crumpled to a ball and thrown towards the empty fireplace, there to join half-a-dozen other such rejects.

"Maddox, I said I was NOT to be disturbed," she stormed, without turning around.

Phryne strolled across the room and bent to kiss her aunt's cheek.

"Don't blame Maddox," she said breezily. "She didn't stand a chance."

"Oh, hello, Phryne," said Prudence testily. "What do you want?"

"I want you to stop wasting a whole tree's worth of notepaper on a missive that's obviously not going to be written any time soon and give me a glass of something refreshingly fizzy and a few minutes of your undivided attention," replied her demanding niece.

"Oh, very well," conceded Prudence, ringing the little bell at her elbow. Maddox appeared at the door, studiously avoiding meeting Phryne's eye.

"Maddox, we'll have a bottle of the Veuve Cliquot."

Phryne sipped her beverage approvingly, and by way of conversational opener, asked what the letter was to be about.

Prudence grimaced. "The new wing for the Women's Hospital. Building was supposed to have started next month, but someone told the builders that we haven't quite raised all the money yet, and they're refusing to start."

Not a fan of team sports on the whole, Phryne was still capable of spotting an open goal when she saw one.

"Then we just have to raise the rest of the money," she said calmly. "In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"How can we possibly raise a large sum like that in such a short time?" protested Prudence. "I'd do the rounds of the ladies in the Committee again, but everyone's already dug very deep – including you, child. No, it's not fair. Not in this day and age."

"We'll have a fundraiser," said Phryne. "I'm going to go and see Bernard Tarrant and see if he'll let us borrow his theatre to put on a play. Something light, that will bring in the crowds."

Despite herself, Prudence was interested; but she was still better prepared to find problems than solutions. "Won't it cost a lot of money to pay all the actors and so on?"

"Not if we use talented amateurs," smiled her niece. "Didn't you do some acting when you were younger?"

"Well, yes, but that was years ago!" Flustered, Aunt P's colour was heightened further. "And I don't think I could be a credible Cecily Cardew these days."

"Of course not!" Phryne laughed. "I was thinking of 'The Importance of Being Earnest' too, though. Surely, Aunt P, you've had a hankering to play Lady Bracknell now and again?"

"Lady _Bracknell_ …" breathed Prudence, and raised a hand to her mouth – first in shock, then in thought. The glimmerings of a smile began to appear in her eyes.

"Who else … could you have?" she asked. Phryne noticed that she was half way to winning the argument, and pressed home the advantage.

"Well, I'd love to play Gwendolen. And I'm sure the Tarrants would help out – I'll get Leila to play Cecily. For the men, Mac must be able to track down a doctor or two that can learn some lines. They're going to benefit, after all. Bernard can buttle. You see? We can do it!"

"I …" Prudence attempted to prevaricate further, but wasn't give the chance. Phryne was in full freight-train mode.

"Right, that's settled then. You start learning lines about handbags, and I'll go and nobble Bernard."

The impresario was less easily manipulated, however.

"Phryne, my dear, it's a charming notion; but there really isn't time before the new rep season opens," he stroked his beard doubtfully.

"When do you kick off?" she asked.

He glanced at the calendar. "The opening night of the new season is a week from Saturday. The get-in is on Thursday next week, so there's basically only a week from today that the theatre is empty."

"Oh." Even Phryne was somewhat daunted. To put on a full performance, to a standard high enough to raise money, in a week?

Then she saw again her mind's eye the pile of failed, angry letters in Aunt Prudence's grate. She lifted her gaze to Tarrant's and there was determination in her eyes.

"Then we'll do it in a week. Can you persuade Leila to help? And I might need you to find me a couple of character actors."

Tarrant assured her that he would use his powers of persuasion, but as soon as the word 'yes' was out of his mouth, the whirlwind had left and he was speaking to empty air.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Dinner that evening was somewhat sparse, and surprisingly haphazard. Mr & Mrs Robinson looked quizzically at one another over a table set with some rather ragged cold cuts, a Waldorf salad that appeared to lack nuts and boiled potatoes which were erring on the crunchy side of _al dente_.

Phryne shrugged, and helped herself. "I suppose that, after all this time, even Mr B has to be allowed an off day now and again."

A moment later, the door from the kitchen opened and Lin Soo entered, carrying a bottle of wine. Wordlessly, she poured for both of them, and then set the bottle neatly on the table. As she made for the door, though, something in the set of her shoulders made Jack call out to stop her.

"Soo?"

The maid stopped in her tracks and pivoted slowly, eyes down.

"Could I have a quick word with Mr Butler?" asked Jack casually.

"Mr Butler has stepped out for a moment," muttered Soo, eyes remaining on the floor.

Phryne had watched the interplay carefully and was instantly on the alert.

"Oh?" she asked. "When did he leave?" There was no immediate response. "Soo?"

Reluctantly, the girl raised her eyes to her employer, for whom she had the utmost liking and respect. Whatever else Soo might do, she wouldn't lie to Phryne.

"Just after lunch, Miss," she admitted.

" _What?!_ " exclaimed Jack.

Phryne quietly assimilated the contents of the table once more, and drew her own conclusions. "You were expecting him back before now, I take it?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No, Miss."

As ever, extracting information from Soo was like extracting blood from the biblical stone.

"Has he … absented himself like this before?" This drew a more hunted look. "Soo? Tell me. You might as well. I'll find out sooner or later," her mistress said firmly.

"Yes, Miss. Twice. But not for such a long time."

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances.

"Thank you, Soo," Phryne eventually excused her. "Please let us know when he returns."

The girl absented herself, but far from appearing grateful, there was every sign that half-hidden fury was now being allowed to simmer to the surface. The door to the kitchen was closed with exaggerated care.

Jack broke the pregnant silence. "He's a grown man, and knows very well how to look after himself," he remarked.

"Indeed. However, he is also, as far as I'm aware, in my – _our_ – employ, and the last time I checked he was to take leave every second Thursday afternoon. Today is Wednesday," Phryne pointed out acerbically.

"As if you care in the slightest that he's AWOL!" scoffed her husband. "It's his safety you're worried about, not his holiday entitlement."

She couldn't deny it, and instead applied herself to the not-inconsiderable task of sawing through the rather thick chunk of cold roast beef on her plate.

He decided to change the subject. "How did you get on with Prudence?"

"It's all go," she said. "But goodness knows how. Somehow, we're going have to get a full production of a fairly high standard off the ground in a week."

"A _week_?" he exclaimed. "But you can't possibly!"

"We'll have to," she replied bluntly, and explained about the builders' reluctance to begin on the new hospital wing. "So, while I was simply thinking of getting Aunt P out of her rut, it turns out there's a lot more urgency than we thought."

He was silent for a moment; he wondered whether she had truly thought through what was required. Not just actors and rehearsals but all the other accoutrements required for The Show to Go On? Rather than risk raining on her parade, he tried to ask the question as carefully as possible.

"Anything I can do to help?"

She gave him That Smile, and took his hand. "Darling Jack, you're far too busy. If you help me learn my lines, that will be quite enough."

He was about to expand on the other ways in which he might be able to help, when the front door was heard to open.

They both looked round.

"Mr Butler, is that you?" called Phryne.

A head appeared around the doorway, closely followed by its associated torso. "Yes, Miss?"

"Mr Butler, where on earth have you been? I was getting quite worried, and Soo's been going around fizzing like a particularly discontented wasp."

"I'm so sorry, Miss. I was in St Albans."

"St _Albans_? Whatever were you doing there?"

"Visiting an acquaintance, Miss. He was quite ill."

"Well, I'm very sorry to hear it, Mr B, but you can't just go swanning off to sick friends' bedsides without telling us. Does this friend have a name?"

"Yes, Miss. He's called Bunbury. Or rather, he was."

"Was?"

"Yes. I'm afraid he's dead."

Phryne narrowed her gaze at her factotum, who appeared unaccountably reluctant to meet it.

"Mr Butler?"

"Yes, Miss?" he responded cautiously.

"Are you fond of the theatre?"

He blinked. "Mrs Butler and I would often attend the Tivoli."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

He retained his most impassive expression. She pursed her lips and debated inwardly whether it was worth accusing him of listening at keyholes. On the one hand, he must have done; on the other, it was a toss-up who would be more embarrassed if he admitted it.

Eventually, she gave up. "Oh, go away, Mr B. If you could explain to Lin Soo the correct way to boil potatoes, that would be helpful. She won't thank you, and it serves you right," she said vindictively.

Mr Butler smiled slightly, bowed and effaced himself.

The following morning, he was evincing a slight limp, but Lin Soo was no longer moving with the pronounced gentleness that portended violence, so the household Moved On.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Aunt Prudence's Rolls was punctual in rolling up outside His Majesty's, and – anxious to smooth the way as far as possible – Phryne was on the steps waiting when it arrived.

She wasn't a bit surprised at Aunt P's punctuality, which had long been a byword in Melbourne's Polite Society. She was, however, a bit discombobulated to observe the chauffeur who unfolded himself from behind the wheel to come and open the door for his precious cargo.

First of all, he wasn't a chauffeur. That in itself was less surprising than it should have been; but Prudence and Edward had generally driven themselves, and so not been in the habit of employing someone to fulfil the task. Since becoming a widow, she'd generally relied on any of her household who could manage the gears. The present gear-wrangler, though, lacked the peaked cap that would have proclaimed the specific role; if anything, his dark suit and tie suggested to Phryne that Aunt Pru had finally managed to acquire a butler.

His dimensions were … impressive. He'd at least the height of Cec, her mild-mannered red-ragger-cum-taxi-driver – probably more – and shoulders that would make even Cec think twice before starting something. His chin was clean-shaven, but he had cultivated a quite magnificent handlebar moustache. Not at all the sort of thing one expected from a manservant, but there was no denying, thought Phryne, it lent him a certain _je ne sais quoi_.

"Thank you, Mitton," said Prudence gracefully as he handed her out of the car. "I will need you to collect me at midday, please."

"Very good, Mrs Stanley," the giant said politely, and resumed his seat at the wheel.

"New man, Aunt P?" asked Phryne casually.

Prudence nodded briskly. "Yes. A suggestion of dear Mary Cooper. I'd been thinking that I needed a senior man, and she telephoned me yesterday and recommended Mitton very highly. He started this morning for a trial period. You know yourself, dear, that Maddox was rather out of her depth. An excellent parlourmaid, but one needs someone like Mitton to … set the _tone_."

Phryne was naturally protective of her aunt, but there had been something of a twinkle in the new butler's grey-blue eyes as he received his instructions, so she decided to hold her peace – for the moment. She led Prudence into the theatre, where the cast was starting to assemble, and Tarrant was handing out scripts.

Dr McMillan had been consulted, and volunteered one of her colleagues to take part. Dr Ross McCafferty did a few shifts at the Women's Hospital, and was known to Phyrne and Jack from his help with an earlier case.

"Hello, Ross!" said Phryne cheerfully. "I didn't know you trod the boards?"

He bussed her cheek. "More usually comedy than drama at medical school, but Jack Worthing's a role I've played before. I warn you, though – I'm going to do my best to be at rehearsals but I do have a day job."

"We're very grateful," Phryne assured him. "And who's this?" She looked enquiringly at a fair-haired, bespectacled youth.

"One of my students. Appropriately enough, called Algernon. Algy, come and say hello to Miss Fisher."

Algy grinned widely as he obeyed instructions; the majority of his attention then reverted to admiring the divinely fair Miss Tarrant. Phryne groaned inwardly, but decided that at least the pair of them would make a lovely couple on stage.

Bernard Tarrant introduced the two character actors he'd secured for the parts of Prism and Chasuble, explaining that the inaptly-named Mr Young would also fill the role of Lane; and the read-through got underway.

This went surprisingly well – the professionals were already largely word-perfect and used the time to begin characterisation, while the amateurs were caught up in the fun, and rhythm and pace began to build naturally. As they were rattling through the closing lines, Phryne looked up and saw her business partner, Dorothy Williams, had crept in and was sitting in the stalls. As Ross delivered his final salvo, there was a general ripple of applause and laughter, and Phryne jumped up to greet the young woman.

"Hello, Dot! What brings you here?"

"Hello, Miss," smiled Dot. "It was Hugh, actually – he told me what was going on, and I thought I'd see if I could help at all with the costumes?"

"Marvellous idea!" exclaimed Phryne. "Dot, that would be lovely. Are you sure you'd have time?"

"Of course, Miss! There won't be too much, anyway, will there? The ladies will need costumes, but the men can mostly just wear evening dress. I've brought my notebook and tape measure …"

While the rest of the cast took a tea break, Prudence and Phryne took it in turns to Be Measured – Leila, and the good-natured character actress, Betty Hale, both insisted they could retrieve something from the theatre wardrobe that would work.

"That's that then, Miss," Dot snapped her notebook shut. "The sketches are fine to work from, so if you'll just give me the materials, I can be off and make a start."

"Materials …?" faltered Phryne. "Oh … bother. We'll have to go shopping."

"Not now, Phryne, I'm afraid," said Tarrant firmly. "We're going to start blocking before I let you all go and start learning your lines."

"But, Bernard …" said Phryne helplessly.

"Sir Bernard?" a voice called from the depths of the theatre.

"Yes, out here," he replied. The voice proved to belong to the stage doorman, who stumbled onto the stage, half-swamped by a stack of brown-paper packages.

"These were just delivered, sir," he said, dumping his burden down with relief on one of the vacated chairs. "Addressed to a P. Fisher."

Phryne looked at the packages suspiciously. To be fair, her past acquaintance with His Majesty's was rather fraught with unpleasant surprises, but none of the packages looked especially bomb-like; and there was a distinct absence of ticking, as she moved closer.

Gingerly, she tore open one corner of the top parcel; and her eye was delighted by a plum-coloured sheen.

"Dot, come and help me with this!" she demanded. Between them, they unwrapped each of the parcels; to find bolts of silks in thrilling jewel-colours, together with all manner of ribbons, buttons and lace for trimming.

"Oh, _Miss_!" Dorothy was practically in tears. "These are _beautiful_! However did you get them?"

Phryne gazed in perplexity at the parcels.

"Do you know, Dot? I haven't the slightest idea."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Lacking any other obvious course of action, Phryne arranged a taxi and helped Dot carry the parcels to it, returning to the auditorium just as Ross and Algy were finishing extemporising on the subject of cigarette cases. A busy couple of hours were then spent reading and frantically scribbling moves into the margins of the scripts, before Tarrant finally released his cast.

"Back on Saturday, and off the book, please, everyone. If we're to get this anything like worth paying to see, you need to start acting," he said sternly. "Phryne, a word."

Guessing that the word in question wasn't along the lines of _Congratulations_ , she picked up her bag and followed.

He led the way to his office, and Miss Fisher skulked behind, trying not to feel as though she was being carpeted for being caught smoking by the headmistress. Bernard sat behind his desk, and indicated the opposing chair for her. She took it, with a flounce of brazen confidence she didn't feel.

"What can I do for you, Bernard?"

"Sets."

Phryne gulped, and her heart sank. She'd heard of this sort of thing, but was astonished that she'd so woefully misread the man she'd always thought of as a dear, and rather elderly friend. Oh, well. They'd jolly well find another way to raise the money, and devil take His Majesty's Theatre if that was how he was going to behave.

"Specifically, Algy's morning room, Jack's drawing room, and at the very least a 'flat' for the second act, in the garden.

"OH!" she exclaimed. "SETS! Theatre sets!"

"Yes, of course," he said crossly. "What did you think I meant?"

She decided not to explain, but instead moved back to the original question.

"Haven't you got anything that would do?" she asked hastily.

"Oh, Phryne, does this look like the kind of place that has endless rolls of backdrops just gathering dust waiting to be wheeled out? We re-use as much as we can, every time. I think the last time we had a garden scene was for A Midsummer Night's Dream, and it's far too Beardsley for your purposes. No, we can do a couple of plain-colour backdrops for the first and third acts, but you'll need a garden for the second, ideally with some sort of gazebo affair, and a couple of sets. With doors. LOTS of doors."

Cheerfully and mendaciously assuring him that it was All In Hand, she sashayed out of the room and out to the side-street where the stage doorman had been keeping an eye on her Hispano-Suiza.

As she was about to get in, she bethought herself of the earlier mystery, and turned back.

"Those parcels of fabric that arrived for me?"

He raised his head from the newspaper that he had started perusing in order to avoid being Visibly Impressed by the vehicle.

"Yer?"

"Did you see who brought them?"

He shrugged. "Delivery bloke."

"What did he look like?" she persisted.

He was already losing interest, and returning to the footy reports. "Like a delivery bloke."

She stood and looked at him in angry frustration, and then decided that she'd rather speak to a more responsive member of society instead.

The Hispano turned, almost of its own accord, towards City South Police Station, where a certain Detective Chief Inspector was about to be sentenced to an hour's hard lunch. He showed every sign of being delighted at the prospect, and politely enquired how the morning's rehearsal had gone.

Her shoulders drooped a little.

"What's wrong? Cast problems?" he asked carefully.

"No!" she insisted. "No, Mac's come up trumps. Do you remember Ross McCafferty? From the Spencer case?"

He nodded, even as he held the door open to the Italian restaurant nearest the station.

"It turns out he used to do am dram at University, and already pretty much knows Jack Worthing's part. He ran rings around me this morning – I'm going to need some serious help with line-learning, darling. And he brought along a student to play Algy, who doesn't seem like the sharpest tack in the box, but adores Leila, and is reportedly possessed of an excellent memory. At least he's coincidentally called Algernon himself, so the challenges are fewer. No," she sighed, "I've just realised that there's more to theatrical production than I thought."

"Like what?" he asked, once they'd ordered.

"Like costumes. Like sets. I nearly got caught out on the first this morning, but thankfully Hugh mentioned it to Dot, who turned up and offered to make costumes for Aunt P and me."

She paused.

"Then something odd happened. Just as I was panicking about how to get Dot something to make into the costumes we'd agreed on, a couple of parcels of the most gorgeous silks turned up at the stage door."

His interest quickened, and he sat forward. "Oh? Who sent them?"

"That's just it," she sat back, and smiled absently at the waiter who brought their salads. "I've no idea. There was no delivery note, they were just addressed in my name at the theatre. The stage doorman might possibly have identified a world-famous footy star turning up at his office, but I'd have very little faith in him picking the delivery man out of the line-up."

"And no bill enclosed?"

"None." She raised an eyebrow. "I have little doubt that Bernard will let me know if one turns up later, mind you."

That led on to the discussion of Lots of Doors.

"I'm racking my brains, Jack, but I'm stumped right now. I need timber, and carpenters, and painters, and such of Bernard's team as aren't on holiday are already hard at work on their next season's rep."

She shrugged. "I'm sure inspiration will hit me soon. I'm off home after this to swot up on Mr Wilde's inspiration, anyway. Will you hear me later?"

"Of course," he grinned wickedly. "Though I'm rather expecting that I'll see you, too …"

She agreed that she would dress appropriately for both eventualities, and he took a large slug of wine to recover, while she reminded herself that Married Life was supposed to have been in some way Arduous or Boring, and mentally set aside a silk-bound notebook solely for the purpose of describing, alphabetically, the ways in which marriage had failed to live down to her expectations.

She then spent the afternoon pacing up and down her parlour, alternately chortling and cursing – when she remembered and when she forgot what she was going to say next, respectively. At about five o' clock, Mr Butler tapped on the door.

"Telephone, Miss. Mr Tarrant, at the theatre."

"Bernard?"

"Phryne, I confess I'm impressed."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was just wondering when your carpenters were going to be getting here to deal with all this timber?"

"All … oh! Yes. Of course. It's arrived already? Super."

"Yes. Not sure how we'll make the doors work, some of them are a bit mismatched, but if they're painted, I'm sure we'll get away with it."

"Yes. Get away with it. Quite. Well, I'll have the carpenters there as soon as I can, Bernard. Thank you."

Miss Fisher replaced the receiver very carefully indeed, threw her script onto the couch in the parlour, and shouted to Mr Butler that Martini Hour had been brought forward, thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

By the time the Chief Inspector got home, Miss Fisher had resorted to the telephone directory. Her hands had clutched her hair so many times that it was starting to stand up on end, which was a faintly hilarious but very un-Phryne look.

He assessed the scene with his usual approach to a crime scene (her bob really shouldn't be treated in such a cavalier manner – there should certainly be a law about that, he decided), then moved to the drinks tray. The martinis had been brought, but not poured, so he corrected the error and, removing the directory from his spouse's grasp with one hand, inserted a beverage with the other.

She glanced up, startled, but sipped gratefully; he raised his own glass in salute and matched her action.

"Problem?" he asked succinctly.

"Yes, and no," she replied. "I've got a whole new mystery to solve. I've not only had a delivery of costume materials from goodness-knows-where – I've now also had a truckload of timber."

"But – manna from heaven though it is – there isn't a carpenter to be had in the whole City of Melbourne," she sighed. "Someone, amazingly, has dumped a load of building materials at the theatre – I've no idea who, or why, but thank goodness they did, I'll have to go and see what we've got in the morning – but as it stands, we're going to be holding up doors for each other to walk through, because I can't find anyone to build the sets."

She slumped in her chair and gazed morosely at her drink. Jack recognised straight away the unfilled role of Comforter-in-Chief and hastily dispensed with production values to cast himself, putting down his glass and placing hands on her shoulders to massage away the tension. She groaned appreciatively and raised one hand briefly to cover his.

"Why not ask Tarrant in the morning if he has any contacts?" he suggested. "In the meantime, we can see if Mr Butler's been doing any more flits to St Albans, or instead stuck around long enough to make dinner, and then I can see how you've got on with your lines."

"Genius, Jack," she agreed throatily, eyes closed in bliss as he worked at the knots in her shoulders. "However, we'll have to eat dinner in this position, because I'm not moving from this blissful spot for the foreseeable future."

He persisted for a couple of minutes more, then leaned down to whisper in her ear a rather more comfortable position that she might wish to adopt later. She giggled, and announced herself sufficiently revived to make it to the dining table.

Conversation over the dinner table was apposite, unless anyone thought muffins inappropriate after the cocktail hour; and Miss Fisher was inordinately well rehearsed by the time she was allowed to fall asleep.

The skies on Friday morning were overcast, which had Phryne's gloom returning as she motored at (for her) a ridiculously early hour to the theatre. This time, she headed straight to the back of the building, to see what carpentry materials were lying in the loading bay.

The loading bay was, however, completely empty. She stood and stared, and gazed all around the area, as if a collection of timber might suddenly reveal itself; and as she did so, a hollow formed in the pit of her stomach.

Thieves, presumably. Poverty was rife, and it shouldn't have been surprising that an opportunist had made off with something saleable, even if it wasn't exactly portable.

 _Not a problem. Easy come, easy go. Raise your game, Fisher_.

No matter how bracing the internal conversation, there was a hint of steel in the spine required to march through the stage door and along the corridors to the proscenium.

Then there was a real need for a seat, because her knees had gone a bit wobbly.

The timber wasn't missing.

It was there.

Right there.

On the stage.

Built into a set, with a couple of what were obviously intended to be inserts sitting in the wings.

The doors didn't match. But they latched, opened silently and smoothly, and had masking flats folded against them to hide movements behind them from the audience view so that the whole effect would be a closed room. A lick of paint and they'd be perfect.

Phryne struggled to think of a more beautiful sight in her whole life.

She was so busy fighting the lump in her throat that she completely failed to notice the shadowy figure at the back of the stalls, which slipped away as soon as she turned her back.

"It's extraordinary," she told Jack later, once she'd recovered an ounce of her usual _sangfroid_. "Almost as soon as I needed costumes, timber and sets, they …" she snapped her fingers, "… just appeared. Sadly, I think I'm going to have to stump up for a few gallons of paint to make the sets look right and get to work myself this afternoon, mind you."

He sat back in his chair, laced his fingers over his waistcoat and regarded her quizzically. "Unless you've started believing in ghosts, Miss Fisher, I have to suspect that you have a secret well-wisher. Do we need to worry about their identity?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly, and shot him a shocked glance.

" _Worry?_ I hadn't thought of that. Oh, good Lord, I do hope not. Do we?"

"Well," he temporised, "we should probably bear in mind that – just as they can deliver the essential ingredients for the Benefit – they can probably take them away on a whim?"

She nodded sadly. "Don't think I haven't already thought of it. I even thought it had already happened when the timber was gone from the loading bay. But surely, if someone's trying to scupper our plans, they'd have had far less work just to ignore us in the first place?"

He admitted that this was true, and then apologetically pointed out that there was a rather overwhelming stack of paperwork sitting immediately beside her perch on his desk, which really ought to be dealt with before judicial timescales had elapsed. She apologised profusely, and slid to her feet, bidding him farewell in the way she knew best.

She did it so well that it was fully five minutes later before he managed to take in the first page of the next witness statement.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

By the time dinner was approaching peak perfection at 221B The Esplanade, Phryne was still at His Majesty's, liberally decorated with dove-grey paint, and had managed to almost complete the painting of a single door and panel. She would have carried on regardless, were it not for the intervention of a certain senior police officer.

"Hello, Jack," she sighed. "Have you come to help?"

"Yes," he replied, removing the brush gently from her hand and placing it in the can of spirit, and re-sealing the tin of paint. "By taking you home to eat and sleep."

"But there's still all of this to do!" she gestured hopelessly at the rest of the untreated woodwork around her.

"Yes, and you have a rehearsal tomorrow for which you need to be word perfect," he said calmly. "Lots of people can paint, but only you can play Gwendolen."

She looked up at him, aghast. "Understudies! Oh, cripes, Jack, what happens if anyone drops out between now and Wednesday?"

"Then we'll find an answer," he insisted, pulling her across the stage to where her coat had been unceremoniously dumped on a chair, and slinging it over her shoulders; given the amount of dove-grey paint on her hands and forearms, he decided that was safer than helping her into the thing. "Dinner. Come on. You've earned it, Mrs Robinson."

"Oh, all right, Mr Robinson," she grinned, and even allowed him to take the wheel of the Hispano. Perhaps, she thought, she could persuade some of her fellow cast members to pick up a brush when they met for rehearsal tomorrow?

Tomorrow being Saturday, the Inspector was available to drive Miss Fisher to her rehearsal personally, and while he refused point-blank to wear his gardening trousers to do so, he slung them and an old shirt in the car so that he could help with the painting while muffins, cucumber sandwiches and bread and butter were discussed.

Thanks to Miss Fisher's determination to consume Enough Coffee To Float A Battleship, they were the last to arrive.

When they did so, they were met with tumultuous applause – or at least, as tumultuous as it could be when produced by only eight people. It was immediately apparent why everyone was so happy, and Phryne's jaw dropped.

The sets had been beautifully painted, not only in the dove-grey she'd provided, but also with detail picked out in gold. They were elegant, and simply perfect – if still slightly tacky to the touch.

" _Jack_!" she whispered in disbelief.

He was standing at her shoulder, scanning the room, and when her eyes met his, quirked a smile. "Does this mean that the assembled company's spared the prospect of my gardening trousers?" he asked _sotto voce_. She nodded, with an answering smile, even as Sir Bernard was calling the cast to order.

"Right, you motley shower, enough of the gaping and applauding – if we're going to have something that an audience will want to gape at and applaud in five days' time, we need to get on. Mr Young, Algy, places please!"

They began at ten thirty. By eleven thirty, they'd just about managed to finish the first act.

It was, quite simply, dreadful. Algy's famous memory appeared to apply only to lines, not to moves; walking and talking were mutually exclusive functions for his brain to perform. Prudence mostly knew her lines, but kept turning up at the wrong entrance, and shouted crossly at Tarrant when he tried, with increasingly clipped tones, to correct her. Phryne and Ross were too easily thrown by the confusion and started making silly mistakes; only Mr Young was able to soldier on regardless, holding the thing together with gritted teeth and a determined smile.

" _You never talk anything but nonsense_ ," said Ross.

" _Nobody ever does_ " said Algy, facing directly upstage so that no-one could hear him.

"Ten minutes" called Sir Bernard faintly, and disappeared through the pass-door in the direction of his office. If anyone suspected him of seeking a swift tot, no-one was going to be so churlish as to blame him.

Phryne slumped into a chair in the corner of the stalls, wished she hadn't stopped smoking and started to worry about a garden backdrop.

While the thespians were strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage, Jack, on the other hand, had a lovely day. Released from painting duties, he decided to seek out the youngest member of his household, who was gratifyingly pleased to see him.

"DADDY!" she shrieked, as he stepped out into the back garden.

"Daughter!" he responded courteously and at roughly half the volume, catching her up and swinging her round. "What are you up to?"

Elizabeth explained at high speed and only slightly modulated volume that she was Gardening, Daddy. He looked over at the corner of the garden which had been designated hers, and agreed that she had clearly been very busy; there was a good-sized hole in the border, and a corresponding pile of soil. Having confirmed that she was Just Digging, he suggested that they should have a think about what they could put in the hole, and in the meantime, would she like to go to the beach?

Her response left him in no doubt that she would like it very much, and he let the nanny, Mary Lou, know that as he had an unexpectedly free day, she should have one too.

The father-daughter team therefore donned swimsuits under their clothes, acquired a picnic from Mr Butler, and were not seen again until well into the afternoon. Mrs Robinson still had yet to return, so Jack warned Mr B that the cocktails might need to be of a more than usually industrial strength and took his daughter for an early bath.

There were, he had come to understand, few joys to match a warm, tired, cheery bundle of childhood who looked remarkably like Miss Fisher. 'Mumma' was discussed at length, and when Elizabeth was relinquished back into Mary Lou's care he changed into something more formal and popped out to execute a little business on his (very thoughtful) daughter's behalf.

He was home only a few minutes before Miss Fisher, and was very glad he'd given due warning to Mr B.

"Twice," she said bluntly. "We got through it twice, and it's taken us all day. Aunt Prudence is at the end of her tether, Ross is at his wits' end and Algy is, frankly, on the wrong planet."

She sank into a chair and held out her hand, into which the Negroni glass was placed. Without opening her eyes, she drained half the contents.

"Jack," she said. "I think I've made the most monumental mistake. Is it too late to call it off?"

"No," he replied. "The worst you would have to do is give people refunds. It seems a shame, though."

"Refunds?" she laughed hollowly. "That would imply ticket sales. There's been a poster up outside the theatre since yesterday, and one in the hospital waiting room as well. So far, we have an audience of ten. And I still haven't the foggiest idea how I'm going to come up with a backdrop for the second act."

"Don't worry," he said. "It'll be all right on the night. It always is."

"So says the man whose Modern Major General put him off the theatre for life," she remarked snidely; then immediately put her glass down and moved to kneel at his feet.

"I'm sorry, darling, that was uncalled for. You've been so lovely and supportive."

He agreed that he had, and pulled her onto his knee so that she could apologise properly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

On Sunday, Phryne decided to enlist all the help she could get with the forthcoming week's thespian challenge, by going to church. Arriving late as usual at St Mary's, she found herself in a rear pew, next to a lady who she'd come to know and respect enormously.

"Mary, lovely to see you!" she said in suitably muted tones as the offering plate was passed around.

The Chief Commissioner's wife returned the greeting politely, and asked after Jack.

"Doing well," said Phryne proudly. "I think he doesn't even dislike the promotion any more; he's been determined to stay at least a little involved in the day-to-day work, so he's much happier. How are you and Bill? Oh, and I must thank you."

"Thank me?" Mary Cooper raised her eyebrows. "What have I done?"

"Aunt Prudence's new man, Mitton – he was your recommendation, wasn't he?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes, he was," replied Mary; though Phryne thought she seemed oddly uncertain.

"Have you known him long?" she asked diffidently.

"No – not long," was the succinct answer.

"But … you regard him highly, Aunt P said."

"Oh yes. Very highly. An excellent man. Oh, prayers!" remarked Mrs Cooper and bowed her head with every appearance of urgent piety.

Phryne's brow furrowed for a moment, but as the Intercessions swept over them, she returned to more pressing matters and politely but firmly instructed the Almighty to intercede for the Women's Hospital by providing some Bums On Seats on Wednesday, please.

She didn't have to wait long for her reply to the memo.

Rehearsal on Monday had been called for 11 o'clock, to allow Bernard the chance to try to find somebody to man the spotlights on Wednesday night; he and Mr Young between them would handle the minimal movement of props between the acts. The cast had been encouraged to become Word Perfect in the meantime, and Ross had privately informed Phryne that he was going to take Algy aside for an hour, if he could find one, to try to achieve a modicum of co-ordination.

At around nine-thirty, just as the fourteenth attempt at sketching a garden scene that could be reproduced onto a backdrop had been produced by the person whose art master had, when she had reached the age of fourteen, politely but firmly requested that she avoid his fiefdom henceforth – and crumpled into a ball and dropped to the floor, thus sadly reinforcing his case – the telephone rang.

"Phryne?"

"Bernard? What's wrong?"

"Well, nothing. Not wrong, anyway. Precisely. I was just wondering if you had a friend who was good at sums."

There was a short pause, while Miss Fisher did a mental shift from Watteau Idyll to Double Entry Book-Keeping. The gears crunched a little, so she played for time.

"Why?"

There was more than a hint of urgency in the tone.

"Well, you see, the thing is … we have A Queue."

"Where?" Her recent activities had her conjure up an image of Impressionists at the stage door, eager to compete render a garden for her. While her sense of humour enjoyed the concept, her pragmatism struggled to cast His Majesty's as the next Sistine Chapel.

"The Box Office."

She humphed.

"Bernard, I know you're a brilliant impresario, but if you've got a problem with your next rep season, I wish you well. I was rather hoping to focus on Wednesday night, though."

"But, Phryne, it's Wednesday night they're asking about. Poor Miss Black's doing her best, but she usually looks to get on with her crochet on a Monday morning, and it's all going a bit haywire for her."

The word 'Oh' wasn't so much articulated as acted. Miss Fisher took a deep breath. Then she told Sir Bernard that Miss Black would have reinforcements within the hour. Then she replaced the receiver. Then she walked to the foot of the stairs. Then she started warming up for the coming rehearsal with a nice big, loud shout.

"JANE!"

There was a short silence. Then a rumble of feet hitting the floor. Then a slightly bleary teenage voice.

"Mmm?"

"Good morning, darling. Sorry to wake you, but I rather urgently need your help. If I bring you a nice cup of tea, could you get dressed and go to the theatre and help with selling tickets to all the people who seem to want to come to the play on Wednesday?"

Another short silence.

"Mmm."

The person in pyjamas shuffled away. Miss Fisher went to commandeer a cup of tea, a pastry and a chauffeur, and administered them appropriately to the numerate (mostly) volunteer when she stumbled down the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

When Phryne herself pulled up outside the theatre an hour later, she blinked in disbelief. Despite the assistance being rendered by Jane, the queue still snaked around the side of the building. Worrying slightly that this was going to mean she would have to start turning up promptly for church (being a stickler for good manners and so on), she made her way into the auditorium where the cast was beginning to assemble.

"Phyrne, my dear!" came the greeting from Sir Bernard. "Come and meet Sparky."

A wiry youth nodded to her and stuck out a hand, which she shook while looking enquiringly at Tarrant.

"Sparky is our deputy electrician, and he's going to do our lighting for us."

"What an apt name!" she exclaimed cheerfully.

"En't my name," the youth grinned. "'s my job. Name's Obadiah."

Phryne grinned back and apologised for the mistake. Taking Tarrant by the arm, she drew him to one side and said quietly, "Sparky's one of your professionals, Bernard. We have to pay him."

He patted her hand. "Don't worry, my dear. You've managed everything else so well, and he'd have had to start first thing Thursday anyway – all I'm doing is giving him a little extra work."

Her eyes warmed, and she reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Then you're a complete darling. Thank you. Now all I need is this wretched garden backdrop." She looked at him uncertainly. "Could we have a look at your Beardsley 'Dream'?"

"We'll hang it for you, but it's wrong, Phryne," he cautioned. "You want hollyhocks and roses – this is more of a mystic jungle."

When the backdrop was unrolled, she couldn't deny he was right.

"Leave it up for now," she sighed. "I'll think of something."

The rehearsal went rather better than Saturday's had – in particular, Ross had managed to instil a sense of direction into Algy, which meant that while he wasn't necessarily always in the right place at the right time, he was at least facing the audience and could be heard. Everyone was feeling a little more secure in their lines, and the pace began to pick up a little; and most important of all, Prudence was beginning to enjoy herself. Her majestic tones, when she informed Ross that under no circumstances would she allow Phryne to 'marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel' were such as to render the whole cast, both onstage and off, helpless with laughter. Catching the tone of the moment, Algy decided to play the Funeral March instead of the Wedding March, at which the hilarity was complete, and the rehearsal of Act One had to undergo a short hiatus.

The day passed; the sun set; and it was Tuesday.

The dress rehearsal had been arranged for Tuesday evening, to fit around Ross' shifts. That being the case, Phryne had a free day, and decided to celebrate by being present at breakfast with the family.

Elizabeth Jane was irrepressibly giggly, which her mother put down to the novelty of them sharing the breakfast table. To give Phryne her due, she and Elizabeth had, in earlier years, shared many breakfasts which were much earlier and a great deal more intimate; but now that the Robinson Offspring had graduated to porridge, and was partial to a soft boiled egg and soldiers, Mrs R generally rejoiced in the solitude of her boudoir of a morning and let the designated Morning People do the heavy lifting.

One of the Morning People was the Chief Inspector, who consumed one piece of toast and took the other with him. He was looking unusually weary, having been out late on a case, and as he leaned in to kiss her goodbye, she caught a glance at his sleeve.

"Jack, what's that?" she asked curiously. "It's not blood, is it?"

He glanced down and muttered at himself. "Stupid. Yesterday's shirt. Forgot."

He promptly vanished and reappeared a few minutes later in a clean shirt to reattempt farewells.

"Jack?" she managed to fit in as he dashed around the table. "I hate to ask but …"

He stopped and tipped his head enquiringly.

"… is there any chance you could come to the dress rehearsal tonight and take the book?"

For one who was fairly competent at arrests, he was still unused to the Arrested Look, but exhibited one, just the same. He hesitated. "It's been a long night, Phryne – are you sure I'm the best person for the job?"

She wasn't above pleading.

"It's just … you've seen so little of what's happening, and I'd love you to be involved. And you know the play so well now – you must know my scenes almost off by heart. And Aunt P's absolutely transforming the thing, I promise you'll enjoy it. And Jane's going to do prompts tomorrow for the show, but she's still helping at the Box Office tonight. Imagine, we're more than three-quarters full now! And …" but he'd already folded.

"I'd be delighted. What time?"

"Six thirty?" She leaped up to give him an enthusiastic hug. He accepted it with equal enthusiasm, picked up a fresh piece of toast to cram in his mouth and hurried to the door.

When Elizabeth Jane announced that she was going to go and do some more painting, Mumma, Phryne remembered her remaining headache. With a sigh, she rose from the table, kissed her daughter and went to dress. The Hispano made short work of the well-worn journey to the theatre as Phryne allowed her imagination to run riot. Could she, perhaps, find a plain green backdrop in Bernard's store and bully a florist into providing some real flowers? She perked up. The idea had merit.

The theatre was deserted at such an early hour – the Box Office had yet to open, and even the stage doorman was absent. This, however, was Miss Fisher, and a few minutes' work offered her entry to a building to which, she reasoned, she had every right to enter – if only Bernard had thought to give her a key.

Half an hour in the dusty store rooms, though, was dispiriting. There was only one more plain-coloured backdrop, in a luxuriant gold; perfect for an Egyptian queen's palace, useless for Sylvan England. They'd have to repaint it green, within the day. Or perhaps a mix of grass green and sky blue?

She returned to the stage to have one more look at the Beardsley Extravaganza.

Like the rest of the building, the stage was in darkness, and she fumbled in the wings for the right switches. Eventually locating the ones she needed, she threw them and stepped out to assess …

…

… the utterly beautiful English garden that awaited her.

A verdant oak arched over a formal pattern of box and yew, trimmed to whimsical design. An arbour took centre place, decorated with climbing roses in a shade of luscious red that seemed perfectly right but somehow nagged at her memory.

Legs not quite working in synchronisation, she stumbled down to the stalls. Her steps took her half way up the aisle, where she took a seat at random.

She looked at the beautiful set, provided by strange hands. At the breathtaking backdrop that had magically appeared. At the seats around her which would, apparently by divine intervention be filled the following evening by people eager either to watch some amateurs do their best with a masterly comedy, or help make the Women's Hospital a better place. Or perhaps both.

The hollow that had appeared in her stomach was suddenly filled with champagne. She giggled. And laughed. And clutched her sides, and gleefully and gloriously roared.

Tuesday was, it transpired, A Good Day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

With no further production worries, Phryne felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She still toyed with the idea of trying to hunt out her benefactor, but decided that if he or she had wanted to be known, they wouldn't have acted in secret. There was no harm in being alert for clues, but she would let that particular sleeping dog lie.

Instead, she treated herself to A Day Off. She took Elizabeth with her to Aunt Prudence's, where the tot was permitted to select a shrub for her garden at The Esplanade. Dot was brought over to the Stanley residence by the red-raggers' taxi, armed with costumes that were all but finished, and both Prudence and Phryne were given their final fittings. (Elizabeth found the Victorian bustles hilarious, and attempted to use her Mumma's as a hiding place more than once).

Prudence was delighted with her costume. The purple silk had been made up beautifully; in her own clothes as Lady Bracknell, she had been majestic; in costume, she was simply magnificent. The butler, Mitton, was even moved so far as to remark that she would outshine everyone else on the stage, ma'am; and Phryne frankly agreed with him. Her own green silk was tailored to perfection, and once she'd managed to extricate the toddler from the bustle, she flounced around the room, practicing turning without stepping on her hems. Prudence needed no such practice, but offered hints with an almost girlish giggle.

Phryne's heart warmed. With the fulsome praise for something that she was undoubtedly doing wonderfully well, Prudence had started to open up once again. There was an air of cheerfulness about the house which had been sadly lacking for far too long; and if she found herself looking sideways at Mitton now and again, she couldn't deny that he was in part responsible for the transformation. Even the sullen Maddox appeared content, now that she had been allowed to return to her comfort zone.

It was therefore a very jolly company that assembled at His Majesty's shortly after six. Phryne had wondered whether Jack might have appeared at 221B first, but he came straight from City South.

"Sorry," he apologised briefly. "Lost an hour this afternoon, had to make it up."

"Lost?" she asked. He nodded shamefacedly.

" _Fell asleep_ ," he whispered. She snorted and handed him the prompt book, showing him his corner.

He sat, and at first followed the lines studiously; but as the dress rehearsal went on, he began to relax, and sat back to enjoy the show.

Apart from an unfortunate incident when Leila tried to hand Phryne a cup of tea, which pass was missed altogether, resulting in a temporary hiatus for broken crockery removal, the dress rehearsal went fairly smoothly.

In fact, when they gathered on stage afterwards for notes, Sir Bernard said jovially, "Well, everyone, this is one of those times when we need the adage about the worse the dress rehearsal, the better the first night, not to be true – because if it is, tomorrow's going to be disastrous. Well done, and see you tomorrow evening.

The adage, however, appeared to be entirely true. The cast was assembled, made up and costumed; the house was filling nicely; and all was on the way to being in order.

With one notable exception.

Tarrant came hurrying to find Phryne, who was standing near the stage door, keeping a look-out for Ross – who was nowhere to be seen.

"Phryne? Telephone. My office. It's Dr Macmillan."

Phryne paled, and made haste.

"Mac? Where are you? You're supposed to be here to cheer us on! And where's Ross?"

"Phryne, I'm sorry. You're going to have to cancel. Ross is in the middle of emergency surgery and can't possibly get away."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Phryne's protest died on her lips. This was always going to have been a risk, and it was her own fault for failing to arrange for understudies. No-one was going to be able to fill in all these lines at this short notice.

Unless …

Brushing away Tarrant's urgent enquiry, she hitched up her bustle and scampered along the corridor and up the stairs to the pass-door leading to the auditorium. The first door she came to was the box in which Jack, Dot and Hugh were settling in to enjoy the show.

"Jack?" he glanced round in surprise as she stuck her head around the door. "A word, please?"

He leaped to his feet. "Phryne, what is it? Why aren't you backstage?"

"Jack, you've read through my scenes with me over and over. Do you think you could remember Jack's lines?"

"Well, yes, I'm quite sure I could. I knew the play anyway. Why?"

She explained rapidly, and he went a little pale. "But, Phryne, there are plenty of scenes you're not in where Jack has lines. I don't know those!

"Hardly any really big speeches, though. There's lots of question-and-answer, like the interview with Lady Bracknell – Aunt P will guide you through that. You can carry a newspaper some of the time and we'll put the right page of the script on it. And Jane's in the prompt corner, just for you."

She took his face in both her hands, and gazed lovingly into his eyes.

"Say you'll do it, Jack? Please? We'll tell the audience what's going on, so they'll understand."

"They won't," he said tersely. "They'll throw things."

"No, they won't, and if they do, it'll be assaulting a police officer, and Hugh can arrest them."

With that, he gave in.

Tarrant appeared before the curtain a few minutes later.

"Ladies and gentlemen; good evening, and a very warm welcome to His Majesty's Theatre. A brief announcement, if I may. First of all, many thanks to all of you for supporting our venture this evening. I am happy to say that, on the back of the ticket sales for the show, along with one or two individual charitable subscriptions, we have exceeded the sum necessary to allow building work on the Women's Hospital wing to begin."

At this, there was an outburst of spontaneous applause, and one or two cheers. Tarrant held up an imperious hand and the theatre quietened once more.

"We have encountered a slight hitch, however. Dr Ross McCafferty, who was to have played the role of Jack Worthing, is unfortunately detained in completing a complex but hopefully life-saving operation." There was a collective sigh, and some concerned muttering. "As I'm sure you realise, in a project of this kind, there is not much one can do by way of providing understudies. However, I am delighted to say that there was a gentleman in the audience who, while not as much rehearsed as Dr McCafferty, is familiar with the role of Jack Worthing, and has therefore kindly agreed to do his best to step in at what is extremely short notice."

There was a ripple of applause, and an expectant pause.

"I am therefore in the unusual position of being able to say that not only will the role of Algernon be played by an Algernon, but also that the role of Jack will be played by a Jack – to be specific, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson!"

There was further round of applause, and delighted laughter.

" _They're laughing at me already and I'm not even on stage yet_ ," muttered Jack.

" _They're laughing with you, and they're rooting for you, darling_ " Phryne whispered back.

"We hope very much that you will indulge us in what may be some slightly unorthodox performance practice; and most of all, that you enjoy a splendid evening. Ladies and Gentlemen – OUR PLAY!"

The crescendo was perfectly delivered. Sparky took the house lights down, Mr Young pulled the curtain up, and Algy was discovered at the pianoforte.

There was a brief discussion on the relative merits of champagne in bachelor and married households, and then it was time. Phryne placed a comforting hand in the small of Jack's back, and firmly propelled him onto the stage.

He'd been frantically reading his opening line over and over, from the copy of the _Argus_ that had been thrust into his hand with the first page of script placed on top of it. As he stepped into the limelight, his mind, however, went completely blank, and he could only manage to smile faintly and hopefully at Algy.

He needn't have worried.

The moment he stepped onto the stage, the house erupted with applause. There were cheers. Dot and Hugh were on their feet, clapping until their hands stung.

Startled, Jack looked around the theatre, and then across at Phryne in the wings.

She grinned, and winked. _Told you so_.

The tumult died down, and when it felt quiet enough, Algy spoke up.

"How are you, my dear Ernest? What brings you up to town?"

He cleared his throat, which appeared to have an unaccountable lump in it. "Oh, pleasure, pleasure!" he replied.

He was carried through the first act on a wave of goodwill, and the others stepped up to make life as easy as possible for him. The hitherto Aimless Algernon managed not only to get his own blocking right but position Jack in the right places as well, with an arm taken here or a gesture there. Fresh sheets of script had been placed strategically on various items of furniture, and even on the plate of bread-and-butter. Jane, whenever he was near enough to hear, whispered his next line gently, allowing him to look up more often and interact with the others.

When his first dialogue with Phryne came, he laid down his newspaper to take her hand; they might as well have been in the parlour at 221B The Esplanade in the way they flung the witticisms back and forth. The show was, unusually, stopped by the delivery of a single line, with just the right amount of plaintiveness from the Chief Inspector.

"I think Jack, for instance, a charming name."

They were required to stand, holding one another's hands, gazing into one anothers' eyes, for almost five full minutes while the audience rolled in the aisles. Phryne's shoulders shook very slightly as her eyes laughed at his. He bit his lip to try to avoid corpsing.

Eventually, order was restored, and Phryne was able, regretfully, to deny the presence of Music in the name Jack.

Prudence's catechism was masterly. As Phryne had suggested, Jack had only to follow her lead, and meekly admitted to Knowing Nothing, which had the audience chortling again.

The unfortunate associations of luggage were established, and Act One finished on a high note. Act Two went smoothly, and the glorious garden backdrop received its own round of applause. Phryne and Leila gleefully sniped at one another over the (newly replaced) teacups; Jack nearly choked when he discovered his next page of script on the muffin-plate, and the one after being proferred by Algy underneath the teacakes, but recovered manfully.

Before Jack knew it, they were coasting into the close. He enthusiastically introduced everyone to his unfortunate brother Algy, and thanked Sir Bernard from the bottom of his heart for inserting the last page of script into the relevant copy of the Army Lists.

In any case, he had no need of prompt for the final, victorious, closing line; and the audience knew it so well that the 'vital Importance of Being Earnest' had scarcely left his lips when the house erupted for one last time.

The cast took their bows in turn, but Aunt Prudence, once she had graciously accepted her due, stood back and gestured Jack to stand forward for a bow all of his own. The whole audience rose to their feet, and Phryne, after letting him stand alone for a moment, stepped forward to give him a firm and enthusiastic kiss.

Sir Bernard looked at the rafters with a hint of concern; cheers like this might cause structural damage, after all.


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

By the time Miss Fisher had removed her stage make-up, replaced it with a lighter-weight version and done the same for her costume, swept a graceful arc through the well-wishers backstage and at the stage-door (with more than one suggestion that a top-up to the Hospital fund wouldn't go amiss, where the dart might be thought to hit the recipient in the wallet) and been driven home by Her Jack, head on his shoulder, the portals of 221B had already been opened to a goodly portion of the theatrical team for the after-show party.

When she walked in, Jack at her side, a great cheer went up, and she swept an immense and graceful curtsy, before accepting a glass of champagne from Mr Butler, which she raised to them all.

"WE DID IT!" she shouted, and the assembled company confirmed with equal volume.

She took a healthy slug from her glass, and swept the room with her glad gaze; then realised it held some rather unexpected faces. The cast were all there, of course; and Dot, with Hugh. But … Lin Chung, and his wife Camellia? Tom Derriment, from Hugh's gym, and a handful of his fellow pugilists? Regina Charlesworth had certainly been at the show, but who was the rather faded lady sitting on the sofa beside her? Bert and Cec, the red-raggers, clinking beer bottles gleefully at the back of the room?

She took a step back, and nearly fell over a giggling threesome – Elizabeth was bouncing up and down in an excited ring with Meggie and Gid, Dot and Hugh's twins, watched fondly by Elizabeth's nurse, Mary-Lou and Dot's home help, Miss Stubbs.

She turned to Jack, a little concerned. "Surely it's long past their bedtime?"

He inclined his head. "Certainly. But it would be churlish to exclude the Marketing Department from your party." And, when her jaw dropped, "perhaps a quiet word in the dining room?"

She allowed herself to be drawn by the hand away from the clamour of the party, and they took a corner of the dining room that wouldn't get in the way of Mr Butler, Soo and – wait, wasn't that Aunt Pru's new butler? – as they hurried back and forth.

Jack stood her with her back to the window, possessed himself of her hand and kissed it.

"You'll work out the rest for yourself, but just to make sure that you're aware of the full list of credit where it's due … carpentry was by Collins, and his lads at the gym. They worked through the night to get it all done. Said it was the least they could do after you got Hugh back from the laudanum smugglers in time for their boxing match."

She opened her mouth to exclaim. But he placed a finger on her lips and finished his sentence.

"They used materials sourced by Bert and Cec…"

"Where from?" she interrupted to ask.

He glanced away for a second and cleared his throat uncomfortably, "… I decided not to ask. It was bound to have been a generous donor to a worthy cause."

She was smiled but forebore to tease him.

"The lady with Regina Charlesworth is Miss Sowerby. She's taken over doing the art work for Regina's magazine, and drew out the garden backdrop. Hugh's lads painted that too, from a miniature guide she gave them." Phryne also suddenly recalled a 'bloodstained' shirt from the previous morning, and realised that it wasn't only Hugh's team that had participated in that monumental task. No wonder he'd fallen asleep at his desk, the dear man.

"The silks were from Lin and Camellia, of course," at this, Phryne could at least nod understanding of one thing she'd already half-guessed.

"What … what did you mean about publicity?" she asked, in increasingly gruff toness. Her eyes were becoming unaccountably damp.

"That was all Elizabeth's idea. I told her on Saturday what you were doing and she asked who was going to come and see the play. I said I didn't know, and she said that if I wrote out all the details _very carefully_ ," he couldn't suppress a smile at his daughter's instructions, even now, "on lots of bits of paper, she would get Gid and Meggie to help her give them out – after church, or Mass in their case, and at the nursery, and at the tea party they all went to on Monday, and so on."

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, calculating. "Yes, I think that's about it."

She gazed at him, and chewed her bottom lip; then shook her head.

"No, it isn't. You forgot someone."

He looked at her, and she could see him recalculating all the immeasurable gifts that had been made to the project by their friends and family.

"No, I think that's everything. Jane helped on the box office, and Dot on the costumes but you knew that. What else was there?"

She traced a hand up his lapel to his cheek. "You."

He flushed. "What do you mean, me? I was at work. I didn't do anything until stepping in tonight – apart from hearing your lines."

"You made it all happen, even if it was mostly from the end of a telephone." His flush told her she'd hit the mark.

"You know me so well, Jack. You know that I prepare everything, or nothing. And in this case, I'd prepared nothing, and stood the chance of falling flat on my face as a result."

"It's a nice face, all the same," he offered bashfully. "Worth saving."

There was no need for them to rehearse the fact that the problems had been miraculously solved almost as soon as she'd articulated them to him – sometimes before she'd even realised they were there. Even the most clueless sleuth could make the connection, and he'd all but admitted it.

She reached down, and took both his hands in hers, bringing them up to her face to kiss his knuckles.

"I'm going back in there now, to thank all these lovely people, who I don't deserve to call friend. I don't deserve you either, Jack, darling; but I'll say thank you to you properly later."

Her smile recovered its usual wickedness. "Once they've gone."

The spark in her eyes lit his, and he turned to lead her by the hand back to the parlour. As they came to the threshold, her glance landed on Prudence, who was holding court in the best armchair. Mitton was leaning over her with the bottle of champagne in hand, topping up her glass with a cheery smile; she made an arch remark to him at which he laughed and nodded vigorously, before stepping back to turn and exchange a swift aside with Mr Butler. It was almost as though the two men had known each other for years …

She shrugged; the man seemed to know his work, and Aunt P was happy. It could be a question for another day.

She picked up her glass and girded her loins to re-enter the fray. One last, backward glance at the man by her shoulder inspired some imp to make her ask a question.

"I have to say, Inspector, you continue – even after all these years – to reveal new sides to your character of which I would never have guessed. Aren't you worried, as a leading member of the State of Victoria's Finest, that you might be accused of displaying a tendency to dissemble?"

He raised his eyebrows, and leaned in to deliver a _sotto voce_ response that she felt as much as heard.

"On the contrary, Miss Fisher. I am more than ever aware of the vital Importance of Being Jack."


End file.
